I’d be able to institute that late night David had been trying to get running for years. No one had ever wanted to work a graveyard shift, but I had the perfect candidate in mind.
All they needed to do was sign on the dotted line.
Across the desk from me, Candace took a shuddering breath, getting ready to launch into a fresh bout of furious tears and desperate ranting.
“I hate to interrupt,” I said, pulling the papers from my jacket and slapping them down on the coffee-stained desk. “But I’d really like to go back to bed. Do us all a favor, and just sign Haven over to me.” They stared at me blankly. David’s mouth fell open.
“You’ve been trying to give me this place for the last year, let’s make it official.” I sat back my chair and put my hands in my jacket pockets. “Take some time and read it over. I’ll buy you out, and Haven stays open. Win, win.”
Candace looked at her husband, who was still staring at me as though I’d sprouted a new head.
I pulled a pen from my pocket and threw it onto the papers as I got up from my chair. “I’m going home,” I said cheerfully. “Call me tomorrow.” I leveled a finger at David, “after noon.”
I left them sitting there and walked out of the café with a smile on my face. My offer was generous, and I had more than enough squirreled away to cover it. If I was going to take Vivienne’s hoodoo bullshit to heart, I may as well do it my own way. If I was going to be Hecate’s dagger, it would be on my own terms, and playing by my own rules.
Somewhere between New Orleans and Brooklyn I’d decided that it was time to stop hiding. I’d been in New York for more than 300 years, it was time to stop pretending that it wasn’t my home.
Epilogue
Spiral vibrated with music, and the floor was pounded by hundreds of dancing feet. Bishop hated these nights. This kind of music wasn’t his thing, but he’d never had an ear for music, just a nose for talent.
This DJ had been flown in from behind the Iron Curtain; something only existed in this day and age in the minds of the people in power. It had been expensive to get him out, and if the Akhua were so keen to keep him, he might be worth acquiring.
Bishop made a note in the small silver-sheathed notebook he kept in his pocket and then tucked it out of sight.
The crowd was good tonight, the bar busy. It was a typical Friday night. But typical meant that there was room for things to go awry, and Bishop didn’t like variables.
Meridian was a variable.
Bishop scanned the crowd, looking for M.A.D.’s lanky blond guitarist. His usual position, a plush booth near the back of the club, was empty. He finally spotted Meridian on the dance floor. He was feeding on a young girl who looked like she had given Church a fake ID to get in the club. Pushing boundaries at every turn, it was Meridian’s way, and it was getting on Bishop’s nerves.
He and Meridian had been turned at the same time, hundreds of years ago, and they had been through the roughest of times together. The Caedyr had put Bishop in charge of the Laudans in New York, and he had turned Spiral into a place of safety, a beacon on the east coast of the United States. “Our ambassador in the colonies,” the Caedyr had called him.
Meridian had followed, but Bishop knew that his presence here had less to do with his loyalty and more to do with the Caedyr’s displeasure.
Half a century ago, Meridian had been on thin ice. He’d pissed off the Caedyr, and one of his own blood children had moved against Bishop, a precious krŭvni dete that had almost cost Meridian his afterlife. He’d been officially pardoned, and the Caedyr had passed a law against creating new members of the Laudan clans, but Bishop had never forgotten that betrayal. And he’d been watching Meridian very closely over the last few years.
He suspected that Meridian had had a hand in the Blood Outlaw uprising last Halloween, but he had kept enough distance so as not to look suspicious. But Bishop could smell his handiwork all over it.
Meridian was smart enough not to get caught again, but unfortunately for him, he was cocky, and that meant he was going to get sloppy.
Meridian dropped the girl he’d been feeding on and wiped his mouth. His eyes met Bishop’s and he smirked. Bishop beckoned him over with a tilt of his head and took a seat at a nearby booth.
When Meridian slid into the seat across from him, Bishop’s face was stern.
“Oh, dear, what have I done now,” he said, his tone mocking.
“You’re starting to lose your touch, Meridian,” Bishop replied flatly. Meridian shifted in his seat, his eyebrow rising just a little. Bishop waited, but Meridian didn’t say anything. Bishop shook his head and the hand resting on the table between them tightened into a fist. “You’ve been breaking Caedyr rules,” he snapped.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Meridian began, but Bishop slammed his fist down on the table, cutting off whatever was about to be said.
“Bullshit. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
He pulled a photo out of his pocket and tossed it onto the table. Meridian leaned forward to glance at it briefly. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”
“It should. That’s one of your detsa, your responsibility.” He stabbed the photo with one of his long fingers. “Sitting in a jail cell. He was picked up on an assault charge. He was feeding outside Spiral. Did you do that on purpose? So I wouldn’t find out?”
Meridian held Bishop’s gaze without flinching.
“I’m not bailing him out,” Bishop said coldly.
Meridian blinked, stunned by what Bishop had said. “What do you mean you’re not bailing him out? That’s what we do. You did it for Eli.”
“Eli isn’t part of this discussion. You know he was turned according to our laws, that was business... not pleasure.” Bishop threw up his hands and grabbed the photo off the table. “How am I going to explain this to the Caedyr? They’re already starting an enquiry into the whereabouts of the Catamarian, and now this?” Bishop flicked the photo at Meridian. The other Laudan winced as the photo hit him in the middle of the chest and fell to the floor.
“You’re being watched, Meridian. And I don’t think you need me to tell you that. You would do well to curb your... appetites.”
Meridian smirked. “Maybe it’s time for a change.”
“Excuse me?” Bishop’s eyes hardened.
“You heard what I said.” Meridian crossed his arms over his chest.
“You forget that this isn’t a democracy,” Bishop said through gritted teeth. “The Caedyr put me in this position, and the Noctem are behind me. I should have known that I couldn’t trust you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Meridian said, his eyes narrowing.
“You know exactly what it means. The Noctem might be willing to overlook your games, but it never forgets, and neither does the Caedyr.” Bishop paused to let his words sink in, and Meridian glared across the table at him. “The detsa will be your lesson not to overstep your boundaries again. I hope you take it to heart.”
“He’ll die in there.”
“An unfortunate casualty, but a necessary one. If you step out of line again, I’ll be forced to take you to the Caedyr, and they will not be as reasonable as I am.”
Meridian scoffed and looked out over the dance floor. “Are we done here?”
“We’re done.” Bishop gestured to one of his burly bodyguards. “Get out of my sight.”
“With pleasure.”
Meridian strode away from the table with a furious gait. How dare Bishop speak to him like that; as though he were a disobedient child. As though their history together meant nothing.
Bullshit.
He pushed past the bouncer at the club’s entrance, ignoring the Laudan’s shout of surprise, and opened the door of the limousine that was parked at the curb.
“Where to, sir?”
“New Orleans. I have a hankering for Cajun,” Meridian said smoothly, meeting the driver’s moonshined gaze in the rearview mirror.
Also b
y Meredith Medina
Daughters of Hecate
Witchmark (Prequel)
Sticks & Stones - Book 1 (Ophelia’s story)
Moonlight Burns - Book 2 (Maia’s story)
Power of Three - Book 3 (Lacey’s story)
Vampire Punk - Book 4 (Eli’s story)
Haven - Coming Soon
Coming in 2018
Keeper of the Flame ~ Twice Cursed
One minute I was minding my own business, just trying to get back to my dorm room after class, and the next minute I was waking up in the middle of a police raid with my would-be rescuer lying dead on the floor and the remnants of a strange occult ritual scattered all around me. This might sound like a typical Tuesday night, but for me, this was all kinds of crazy, and I was most definitely going to do my best to forget that it ever happened.
But what had really happened that night? I was just a student, an American overseas trying to get a year of study under my belt. A year in London would be just what I needed to propel me into the academic career of my dreams. Unfortunately, those dreams seemed to be slipping through my fingers… I didn’t ask to be kidnapped, and I certainly didn’t ask for these weird nightmares or black-outs.
Bayleigh Cameron’s year abroad was going just fine, except for the fact that she’s being stalked through the streets of London by a secret society obsessed with the rebirth of an ancient goddess who they believe will propel them towards the world domination they crave. Unfortunately for them, an interrupted ritual could turn the wrath of the goddess in the wrong direction, and there’s nothing they can do to stop it.
* * *
Twice Cursed is a standalone Urban Fantasy novel featuring ancient magic, rituals, murder, intrigue and a really cranky deity.
Turn the page to read the first chapter of Twice Cursed.
SNEAK PEEK ~ Twice Cursed ~ Chapter 1
I was standing on a cliff overlooking a green valley sliced in two by a wide river. Smoke billowed around me, the carmine tendrils entwining with my hair and snaking around my bare ankles. A hot wind blew from the east, tugging at my tunic and flattening it against my body. The river far below wasn’t blue or sparkling green, it was dark and swirled dangerously, the waters were murky and full of writhing eels that coiled on the muddy banks.
The hot wind blew harder, and then my feet were in the river, sinking up to my ankles in the dark mud. Eels roiled in the muck, scraping against my skin. The river was red… red with blood. But I wasn’t afraid, I was proud, I was justified… everything was as it should be. A smile curved across my lips as I bent to dip my hand into the scarlet water. I drew my cupped palm to my lips and looked down at the murky red water. I inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of incense and ashes before tipping the river’s blood red water into my mouth, smiling wider as it dripped over my chin.
I could hear the sounds of battle all around me, hear the cries of the wounded and dying… the chanting of my worshippers… it was music to my ears.
All at once, a cold hand fell upon my shoulder, and I turned, a snarl on my crimson lips ready to lay waste to the mortal who had dared to touch me, but the verdant valley and the red river had disappeared. The sounds of battle faded, the chanting stopped. I struggled to move, to run, but I was trapped in the hot mud of the riverbank, unable to lift my feet.
I struggled to move as the desert rushed around me, the red cliffs and green fields disappearing to be replaced by black walls and dark stone. A tomb. It was a tomb. The air smelled sour. Thick with smoke and herbs and my mouth was dry. My throat raw as though I’d been screaming for hours. Buried alive.
I was hot and cold at the same time, my arms ached, my ears were ringing, and I couldn’t move. Furious tears streaked down my cheeks as I struggled against my bonds. I was tied, trussed up like a chicken. My arms were crossed over my chest, my legs bound together. I tried to roll, to see what was happening, but my vision was blurred, and I was disoriented. All around me I could hear the sounds of panic. People screaming and shouting, the crash of falling objects and slamming doors echoed everywhere. The thundering of booted feet pounded down hallways and up stairwells.
I rocked myself over onto my side, craning my neck to see something, anything to give me a clue as to where I was. The last thing I remembered was walking to the tube station, a bag of books and groceries in my hand… and then nothing. Just that weird dream.
A man with white hair and a pale brown tweed jacket was sprawled at an uncomfortable looking angle on the floor, but the longer I stared, the more painful the position looked. And then I realized that the man’s head was lolling at a strange angle, and I gasped sharply as my eyes met his glassy stare.
Dead. Most definitely dead.
I struggled against the linen strips that secured my arms and legs, trying to loosen them, or get them close enough to my mouth to get my teeth on them. A group of men dressed in riot gear ran through the room in a tight formation, completely ignoring me as they rushed by.
“Hey! Hey! What the fuck is going on?”
No one stopped. Figures. More crashes and shouts echoed in the room and I struggled again, sliding on the cold polished stone I had been placed on. Before I could stop myself, I felt myself falling through the air towards the slate floor.
I landed hard on my side, crying out as my elbow struck the stone stairs at the side of the altar sharply.
I closed my eyes and lay there for a moment, trying to breathe normally as my heart hammered in my chest. Pain radiated from my elbow. It better not be broken. More shouting, more booted feet running through the room, and still no one coming my way. What the hell kind of raid was this? I opened my eyes, furious as my would-be rescuers left the room. How many of them were there anyway?
Oh, god.
I was face to face with the old man in tweed. His open, unseeing eyes stared into mine. His neck was definitely broken, and there was dried blood at the edge of his nostrils. There was sand stuck to his eyeball. As though someone with dirty fingers had reached out and touched them as he’d died. Screams echoed in my ears and it took me a minute to realize that the bloodcurdling sounds I heard were coming from my own mouth.
Strong hands encased in dark gloves pulled me upright and carried me away, but my eyes were fixed on the prone figure on the slate tiles. The linen bindings were cut from my body as I was strapped to a gurney and an oxygen mask was fixed over my face. A paramedic holding a hypodermic needle glared at me as he leaned forward and I tried to pull away, but the straps prevented my escape. The needle plunged into my arm and everything blurred and faded to black.
If you’d asked me yesterday what kept me up at night, I would have mumbled something about my upcoming thesis presentation, or the pile of books on my desk that were all overdue, or the post-it notes that covered my laptop reminding me to renew my student visa.
A year at King’s College had seemed like the perfect boost to my academic career, and when I was accepted to the exchange program, there was nothing that could keep me from jumping on a plane and getting the hell out of Chicago.
I’d spent every last penny of my savings and signed up for a new credit card to keep me afloat overseas… it was kind of working, but in a starving student kind of way. It was a good thing that I had developed a kind of dependence on microwaved rice and saltine crackers. The last time I’d eaten a proper meal had been over Christmas, and that always came with a side dish of ‘what are you going to do with this degree anyway?’ My family wasn’t exactly academically focused, and as the first Cameron to get my shit together enough to scramble through college and into the University of Chicago on the back of grants and scholarships, I only had to work a few days a week at the University book store, which wasn’t totally horrible. At least not all the time.
So, here I was, an American student in London trying her best not to let on that I was completely terrified and about three hours away from a nervous breakdown at any given moment. Pretty normal, right? I had no real friends outside of my study groups, no di
stant relatives to touch base or spend holidays with, and a roommate that I barely saw.
In short, it was the perfect environment to work on my thesis and really throw myself into my studies. I lived in the library, slept with my face on my books and took the tube late at night to clear my head.
I was a people watcher, and there was nothing better than riding the tube to get the best possible view of what really made London what it was, and what it had been for thousands of years. Plus, I wasn’t much of a drinker, and drunk people were hilarious. College drinking is usually a sport, but here… it was a national pastime. I could have done a thesis on the socio-political importance of pubs and drinking in British society and it would have been the easiest research I’d ever done in my life.
I’d been on one of my midnight tube rides, listening to a group of girls tell me all about their enthusiastic stalking of a certain ginger haired singer. They’d followed him to three different pubs before realizing that he was just some bloke from Manchester whose only claim to fame was this one time that he’d vomited his fish and chips on the shiny boots of a Tower guard.
Everything was normal. Well, normal for a Tuesday night on the Circle Line. People jostled and pushed their way onto the train. Shouting football chants, arguing rugby scores… a colorful, confusing grouping of red-faced hooligans and college co-eds, mixed in with night shift workers, nurses and medical students. I took the jostling with good humor, I’d learned that quickly.
In Chicago I’d been quick to snap at anyone who touched me unexpectedly, but here it was different. I still wasn’t sure why, but it didn’t bother me quite as much. Maybe it was the murmured apologies and the embarrassed eye contact that accompanied each jostle, as though they were surprised to discover that there was another person sharing the space they were using on their commute. It was endearing in a strange way, but it was no way to go through life. Maybe it was just my American sensibilities coming through, but that shit would never fly in New York. Push or be pushed. Move or be moved.
Power of Three Page 16
